


The Right Tool

by Nagaem_C



Series: The Sewing Box: Needles and Pins One-Shots [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Lestrade, Danger, Drugs, Early Days, Friendship, Gen, Guns, POV Lestrade, Rescue, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 11:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3172122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/Nagaem_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a run-of-the-mill workday for Detective Sergeant Lestrade, until he suddenly finds himself tasked with a mission he never expected, one which he can't possibly refuse. The consequences for failure? Disastrous, to say nothing of the crushing guilt...but Greg hardly suspects that success, likewise, may alter the trajectory of his life forever.</p><p> <b>(Takes place eight years before Stitching Up the Tears; may stand alone)</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Recruitment

**Author's Note:**

> In Chapter 42 of The Ravelled Edges (A Shadowed Path), Greg reminds Sally that his Met personnel file contains a few fairly unorthodox tweaks:
> 
>      "...Oh," Sally breathed in response, sitting back abruptly, and he knew she'd forgotten. That wasn't a surprise; it had been quite some time since he'd armed himself on a case.

  
**Recruitment**  
_(21 July 2006)_

.

 

The sun was sinking low, and the sixth floor at Scotland Yard had mostly emptied for the day, but Greg Lestrade was still hard at work. This wasn't altogether unusual. He frequently stretched his working hours to complete important tasks, to do legwork and research, to anticipate the questions his DI would be asking the next morning.

It was a bit less routine for that overtime to be spent hunched over a desk, poring through densely printed ledgers of near-incomprehensible codes and figures. But the work needed to be done: DI Prescott had pulled a murder case in which the motive appeared to stem from an elaborate financial scheme.

With the retirement of DI James Harwood that spring, Lestrade, Underhill and a few others had been temporarily left to float amongst the other established teams in the Homicide division, pulling extra weight wherever needed. Greg liked Henry Prescott just fine, and wouldn't mind at all being fully assigned to work with his team, assuming he wasn't simply shunted over to assist whoever eventually got the next promotion. Unfortunately, Prescott had so far given him only the most routine and mundane tasks. Being buried neck-deep in numbers wasn't Greg's idea of a rewarding night on the job, but if it helped Prescott bring in the killer, it was worth the missed supper.

 _Missed supper. Oh, hell,_ he thought with a start, reaching into his pocket to pull out his mobile phone; flipping it open, he hit the speed-dial for home.

"Tracy, love, hey—"

"Let me just guess. In late tonight?"

"I'm sorry, I know I should've called earlier. It's only, I've finally got my head wrapped 'round this accounting thing, and I'm making progress. If I can get the proof Prescott needs from these figures tonight, he might actually let me out of the box tomorrow."

The sound of her sigh tickled his ear, but for once she didn't take the opportunity to snap at him. "Fine, fine. It's been a few weeks since you worked past dinner, and I know you're trying to impress. I was going to fry up some chops tonight, but maybe I'll see if Hannah's free to do something instead."

"Thanks for understanding, Trace. If you do go out, have a good time, and tell Hannah I said hi."

His spousal obligations satisfied, Greg bent his head over the ledgers, absently chewing on his pencil. Within minutes he was once again fully absorbed in his task.

 

.

 

Greg had moved on from the 2002 books into the first quarter of 2003 when the office lighting automatically clicked to evening mode, signalling eight o'clock; he glanced up, blinking at the sudden dimness beyond his desk, and rolled his neck a bit before diving back into the numbers.

A voice spoke coolly from behind him, shocking him into alertness. "I'm certain you're aware that Health and Safety Regulations recommend against such a poor posture for prolonged desk tasks."

" _Holy—_ " Greg jerked upright and spun his chair around, biting off the startled curse that sprang to his lips and babbling slightly as his heart rate returned to normal. "I, um. I'm fine...Mr _Holmes_?"

The man in question stood precisely two paces behind him, his hands clasped over the furled umbrella he propped before himself. "Detective Sergeant Lestrade," he intoned, regarding Greg with hooded eyes and a faint smirk. "Ever devoted to your work. Murder, was it?"

"Yes," he answered, suddenly suspicious.

"Indeed. Murder with a side order of fraud and embezzlement. And while Prescott's regular team runs the true legwork on the case, _you_ have to sit at this desk, muddling through complex financial statements. It's a pity."

Even though a whole host of alarm bells was sounding within his head, Greg couldn't stop himself from snapping out an immediate retort. "I wouldn't exactly call it 'muddling'; I'm not doing so badly."

"Ah, of course not. My apologies," hummed Mr Holmes, in a tone which implied there were no actual apologies involved at all. "I simply meant to say that Detective Inspector Prescott is failing to take advantage of your unique utility."

"My _utility._ And what might that be?"

"Currently somewhat limited, of course. But then, that's the way with most public servants. The choices you've made within your career so far have set you on a clear path to relative obscurity. However, there is a certain amount of undeniable potential."

"I don't understand what you're getting at, sir." Belatedly, Greg had recalled that the man before him wielded no small amount of pull, from his mysterious Government office. It probably wouldn't do for Greg to keep on reacting so impolitely, even when every polished word Holmes uttered came off as either an order or a subtle taunt.

"I'm certain you don't. Walk with me?"

"Uh...okay." Greg turned, hastily shuffling the papers together on his desk and pulling the ledgers closed; he carefully placed the whole assemblage into the lower drawer, locking it. As he stood, he was startled again to see two dark-suited men emerge from seemingly out of nowhere; one stepped past Greg to switch off his desk lamp, while the other simply stood by, blank-faced.

 _What the bloody hell is going on?_ he wondered, holding his tongue as he followed Mycroft Holmes out through the half-lit office.

 

.

 

In the main hallway, the lighting was a little brighter; here, Greg could discern the faint olive pinstripe that ran through Mycroft's impeccable suit. It set Mycroft leagues apart from the two bland men flanking their little group—for a man in his mid-thirties, his style was incredibly sophisticated and fussy. Greg had had only three encounters with him, so far; he'd first experienced the dubious pleasure of a visit a little more than a year ago, and the subject under discussion each time had always been the same.

"Look," he began, "if you're searching for Sherlock, Mr Holmes, I haven't seen him. Last time I spoke to him was nearly three months ago."

"No; I'm fairly well informed in regards to Sherlock's whereabouts. As a matter of fact, I'm in the process of gathering further intelligence, as we speak."

"Intelligence? That sounds...ominous, if you'll excuse me saying so."

Mycroft stopped his slow stroll and pivoted to face him. "Quite right. I trust that I may rely on your discretion?"

"I suppose you may, if that means I'm agreeing to have you explain why you've drawn me away from my work."

"Your case? Don't worry about that. It's being handled."

"Handled?"

"He's right, you _are_ rather like a mynah bird at times, aren't you? Yes, _handled._ Your notes on the accounts you've spent the evening studying shall be passed on to Inspector Prescott tomorrow, along with the appropriate clarifications and explanations to help him close the case. You were already on the right track; don't worry, you'll be given full credit for your work."

"Thanks—wait, what?"

"Has Sherlock never admitted to you that he fails to claim the majority of the genius in our family? Typical. At any rate, that case is no longer your concern. I require your assistance in a certain _delicate_ matter, and as such, I've made arrangements for your paid leave." He began his leisurely walk towards the lifts once more, tapping his umbrella along the floor as he went.

"Oh, no. If you think I'm just gonna follow you, without more than that..."

This time, when Mr Holmes turned to him, his lips were pressed thin, and he spoke softly. "I'd hoped to wait until we were more private, but as you _insist,_ I'll put it in simple terms for you. Over the course of the past few months, Sherlock has undertaken a dangerous investigation on his own, entirely against my express advisement. It required him to go undercover, with minimal opportunity for communication; that tenuous contact has now been lost."

"My God. _That's_ why he hasn't been around? I thought maybe he'd found himself a better hobby than stalking crime scenes!"

"I would hardly consider attempting to bring down a heroin-smuggling cult to be an improvement."

Greg barely noticed that he was being chivvied along down the hallway again; he gaped at Mycroft in frank disbelief as the pair of operatives herded him into the waiting lift. "You let him get involved with a _drugs_ ring. After what happened last winter. What were you _thinking_?"

"I strongly advised him _not_ to. I gave him every possible warning," Mycroft snapped. "He went behind my back, and by the time I found out it was too late to do more than monitor the situation! Make no mistake; I know far better than _you_ the risk this poses to my brother's welfare!"

"Right. Yes. I'm sure you do, of course," Greg said, carefully backing off; he sternly reminded himself once more that crossing Holmes could lead to nothing good.

Within the space of one long breath, Mycroft had regained his poise. "Our last communication from him indicated that the situation had become unstable. It is, at this stage, highly probable that Sherlock has been compromised, and may not be in his right mind when we are able to effect his extraction. The task must therefore be undertaken by someone Sherlock both knows and likes...someone whom he will trust on sight."

"And out of everyone, you're picking _me_."

"Everyone? You make great assumptions, Detective Sergeant. Do you truly imagine we have a large pool of potential choices, when it comes to those in Sherlock's close acquaintance?"

"Fine, I met the kid almost two years ago, but it took six months before he'd give me more than a rude word here and there, and I still barely even know him! He harasses me about my investigations, yeah, but he doesn't bloody _like_ me. And surely, _surely_ he doesn't _trust_ me."

"Doesn't he?" Mycroft raised his brows promptingly as they exited to the lobby. "Exactly how many times has my brother been inside your home, Sergeant Lestrade?"

This brought Greg's line of protest up short. His mind was suddenly filled with memories of the younger man at his kitchen table, sniping mercilessly at him one minute and railing against the incredible stupidity of the outside world in the next. Greg let himself be ushered into the waiting car at the street; after Mr Holmes seated himself and the doors closed, he swallowed and answered honestly. "Five times."

"So, you see. I believe, all things considered, that there is no man better suited to this particular task."

"Fine; I suppose I don't have to _believe_ you to understand you've got no other option. I'm in, all right? You knew I would be, soon as I got into your car. So what's the plan? Where is he?"

"Unreachable, for the time being. We're working on a strategy, but it will require us to wait. The delay will work to our advantage, however; it will allow you time to be trained."

"Trained?" Greg glanced over to catch the pointed look being sent his way. "Sorry."

"I've arranged a series of intensives for you, over the course of the next two weeks. In lieu of reporting to work, you will allow my assistant to deliver you to and from these sessions."

"And you've cleared all this with the Met?" he asked doubtfully. "They seriously don't have a problem with this?"

"Your Chief Superintendent knows what he needs to, but no more. Your absence will be explained away to your other supervisors and colleagues; I shall personally ensure that your participation in this venture will be no detriment to your employment. Now, if you have no further pressing concerns?"

Greg shook his head dazedly, staring out the window as the towncar pulled up to a stop before his own home. "I guess not. Just tell me what I need to do first."

"A car will arrive for you at six tomorrow morning. Be ready; bring along gym apparel. Oh—and one more thing...don't plan on being home for supper for the next few weeks, Detective Sergeant Lestrade."

 

.

 

The next morning dawned clear, but something in the air already promised more of the sizzling heat that the past week had inflicted upon the city. Tracy barely stirred when Greg slipped out of bed. He'd made up some awkward song-and-dance the night before about a mandatory CID seminar he'd forgotten, and she had seemed to buy it. The lie hadn't been ideal, of course, but he couldn't fathom telling his wife the truth—especially not when he still had so little idea what exactly the truth entailed.

On the surface of things, Greg knew he shouldn't be nervous. He remembered his police training, the hand-to hand and self-defence moves that had always come fairly easily to him; he knew he was still reasonably fit, for a forty-three year old occasional smoker. And he'd done a basic guns course along with everyone at Hendon; it had been part of the preliminary knowledge base that everyone had got, before the Specialist Operations-track trainees were sorted out from their ranks. That had been nearly twenty years ago, but Greg didn't remember having any particular problem with it, aside from the fact that his personal career expectations had drawn him in a different direction.

 _So why is my stomach in knots?_ he asked himself, frowning down at his toast and marmalade at five fifty-three.

He knew why. He knew _exactly_ why.

A large black sedan appeared at precisely one minute to six, pulling smoothly around in the small cul-de-sac of his street and purring to a stop at the end of his walk. Greg was already out the door before its tyres stopped turning, gym duffel in hand, edgily straightening the tie he probably shouldn't have bothered with.

The rear door opened in silent invitation. It seemed darker inside than cars were generally meant to be; when he ducked in, what little daylight there was seemed to disappear behind the ridiculous window tinting.

"Morning," chirped the woman in the seat beside him. Her head was bent over a BlackBerry, long brown hair hiding her face.

"Good morning," Greg responded automatically, momentarily occupied with settling his bag beneath the small facing seat.

When he looked up, the woman was staring at him inquisitively. He blinked and returned the scrutiny for a second, as she didn't seem to be prompting him to say anything: tasteful makeup, forest green skirt suit, and an expression of vague amusement in her grey-green eyes. She was very well put together, but she seemed quite young.

"Greg Lestrade," he finally said, offering his hand.

"I know you are," she hummed smoothly, clasping it and dropping it. "Call me...mm...Alanna."

"Okay." He shifted in his seat and straightened his tie again. "Nice to meet you, then."

Alanna reached forward to touch a control, and the vehicle's cabin was softly illuminated. With a light tap at the opaque partition, she signalled the driver. Already dark windows blacked out entirely as a second layer of glass promptly rose from hidden slots in the doors.

"Not that we don't trust you," she murmured, her lips curving slightly further upwards, as if reacting to some joke Greg wasn't hearing.

"I get it. Sure."

Heavy silence filled the vehicle. Alanna crossed her legs and returned her focus to the PDA, and Greg unsuccessfully fought the urge to fidget, repeatedly glancing aside as if there were a view to be seen beyond the glass. Instead, he caught only the dark, smudgy reflection of his own face. He hadn't the slightest idea what to say, whether he was expected to talk at all, what he could and couldn't ask. If questions were on the menu, _where are you taking me_ was currently at the top of Greg's list, but he already knew _that_ one was off-limits.

After five or six interminable minutes, the young woman sighed softly. "You're a nervy one, aren't you," she commented without glancing up.

Suddenly piqued, he clenched a hand at his side. "Well, if you'd rather I be _calm,_ I have to be given _some_ idea what's going on!" At that she did look over, and he glared back with a hard set to his jaw. "Look, I know Mycroft is looking to treat me as an implement, to be used at convenience! I'm involved with this— _whatever_ this is, for one reason and one reason only, as far as he's concerned. I get that I don't rate a full briefing, but damn if I haven't jumped into this feet first with no clue what's coming!"

Alanna's smile twitched and widened, reaching her eyes for the first time since he'd gotten into the car. "Okay."

"Okay?"

She twisted in the seat a little to face him, lowering the BlackBerry to her lap. "I confess, I didn't know what to expect from you, Greg; it's become a habit of mine to treat everyone as I do Mr Holmes, especially in the mornings. He prefers to avoid idle chatter."

Greg couldn't help twitching his eyebrows up. "He wasn't kidding then? You're actually his personal assistant?"

"The one and only. Who else had you expected him to send?" she countered, cocking her head to the side.

"I dunno, there were two men with him last night anyway..."

"Goons." Alanna tossed hair over her shoulder and clarified, "Well, not precisely, but for the purposes of last night's agenda, it's fitting to think of them that way. You'll not see those two again."

"So, what _can_ I expect? Can you tell me anything at all?"

"Not our destination, as you've already gathered. But it'll be about a forty minute ride yet. I don't have any hard copy for you just now; assuming the day is a success, you'll probably have a little reading material for the ride home. Today, you'll have to have a physical first, that'll be with Dr Miller. Nothing invasive, don't worry. Then you're scheduled for two hours each with Mr Shoemaker and Mr Butcher before lunch."

"And after lunch, the baker and the candlestick maker, I suppose?"

Her nose crinkled in genuine amusement. "Presumably a brief session with Mr Tailor, after which your remaining schedule will be worked out based on the results of the morning."

"All right. That's something to go on with, anyway," he nodded, locking his fingers together in his lap and settling down into the seat. He did feel somewhat mollified, and he'd as much as promised her that he'd get his nerves under control. Still, he wasn't sure exactly how to go about doing that, even with the new information he'd gained.

She reached down; he hadn't noticed the slim, dark bag tucked against the seat behind her ankles—he was well out of the habit of ogling the shapely legs of women not his wife—but now she slipped a folded newspaper from it.

"Put yourself out of your misery," she quipped, offering the paper; "there are usually some fairly good acrostic puzzles in this one, if that's your thing."

 

.

 

Although the names he'd been given were as patently false as that of the woman who had escorted him in, the faces attached to them all turned out to be genuinely personable. 

Dr Miller, a no-nonsense blonde who stood only barely taller than his wife, interviewed him and examined him with gentle poise. She then sent him on to the windowless facility's well-appointed gym—or possibly only one of them. There, he met the tall, lean Shoemaker, who put him through his paces, matching him move-for-move with friendly enthusiasm.

At the firing range, Mr Butcher seemed the diametric opposite of the trainer from first glance: dark-skinned, stocky and deadly serious, he lectured Greg on gun safety and gave him the outline of an accelerated course that would rapidly bring him in line with requirements—assuming that he was up to the task.

Mr Holmes' mysterious assistant appeared out of nowhere as Greg was finishing up the boxed lunch he'd been provided, and she led him through a warren of monochromatic hallways to his fourth appointment. When he found out that Mr Tailor was exactly that, he couldn't help but laugh aloud. Alanna looked up from her BlackBerry and raised an inquisitive brow, but when Greg gestured at the man taking his measurements and gave her a sheepish shrug, she returned a chuckle.

Much later, after she'd come to collect him for the third time and they were seated once more in the windowless car, she said, "So. Did the day live up to your expectations?"

"Secret base, one-on-one training, and false names as far as the eye can see? I suppose Mycroft's trying to impress me," Greg replied flippantly, pushing his shoulders back into the leather seat and feeling things pop in a few places. He was going to be terribly sore tomorrow, no doubt, but he suspected he wouldn't be cut a bit of slack for it.

She glanced at him through long lashes and smiled down at her PDA. "Mr Holmes wants you best prepared, in the shortest possible time," she hummed. "Between you and me, though, he does enjoy the theatrics, just a bit."

"So they really _are_ related," he yawned, rubbing a hand across his eyes. His watch read half eight, and they'd barely begun the long drive. Not even the gnawing hunger he felt would be enough to keep his eyes open all the way home.

Alanna seemed to sense this, telling him, "We'll leave the reading for morning, shall we," and then he was aware of nothing else until she was prodding him gently awake, the car idling at his front walk.

 

.

 

After that first day, they began to serve him larger and more protein-rich meals, a consideration for which he suspected he had Dr Miller to thank. Alanna started carrying protein bars, painkillers and bottled water in her bag, too, doling them out as needed during their long commutes. He hadn't the energy to do much more than sleep in the time he was home each night, and Tracy was already in a snit about his long hours and his inability to take her phone calls during the day...so it was little wonder that he came to rely heavily on the young woman, for the comfort of her companionship as well as for the competent assistance she provided him. She was still silent a large portion of the time, and the myriad demands of Holmes' office kept her firmly tethered to her device—apparently composing replies and instructions as fast as new information could come in, perpetually watchful—but Greg learned quickly how best to encourage her dry wit into good-natured chat.

"What's it like, really?" he asked her one evening, capping his water bottle and holding its coolness against the nape of his neck. Shoemaker had been working with him that afternoon on escaping headlocks, among other things, and he was feeling a bit battered.

She threw him the knowing, amused glance he'd become accustomed to. "What's what like?"

"Working for Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh, you know. Never a dull moment." As if to punctuate her statement, she looked down again and gave a minute twitch of her eyebrows in reaction to some new missive recently arrived; her thumbs flashed into motion briefly.

"So it's not strictly passing on paperwork and ordering up his frou-frou coffees, then?" Greg joked, gratified to receive a quiet snort of laughter for his effort.

"He's a tea man, and no."

"My, my. It must be killing him, having you tied up with dragging my sorry arse around for so long."

"The end will prove worthy of the means, I'm sure."

Reminded once more of the underlying reason for this strange ordeal, Greg felt the corners of his mouth pulling down. "Do you think he's okay?" he asked softly, no longer referring to the elder Holmes.

Alanna turned the PDA face down in her lap, but didn't look up. After a moment, she answered, "Chances are he's high. It's possible that he's at least nominally in control of how much he's using, though, and after last winter—considering all the factors at play, he's bound to be doing what he can to avoid using too much."

"You sound as if you know him fairly well."

She shrugged, and pulled her eyes up to his with a small smile. "We've only directly spoken three times, actually, since I began working for Mr Holmes a few years ago. But it's amazing how you can come to know someone, in having to keep tabs on their actions almost constantly. There's always been a partition marked 'Sherlock' in the data I monitor daily—right up there with active watchwords such as North Korea, though admittedly far more likable. My employer's overriding concern shortly became my own."

Greg grinned. "Heh, 'more likable than North Korea.' He'd actually appreciate that description, wouldn't he!" Sobering abruptly, he continued, "You share Mycroft's concern; do you also share his optimism?"

"Judging from the reports I've been forwarding to Mr Holmes, it certainly appears you're managing to meet or exceed expectations, so far. By this time next week, you'll be as ready as we have time to make you...and personally, Greg, I think you were the best choice he could've made."

 

.

 

Tracy confronted him in the front hall after his eighth day of training, just as he was dragging himself through the door. "You told me _one week,_ " she accused him.

"Did I? No, no, it's to be a little over two. You, ah, must've misheard me," he stammered, trying and failing to recall the exact words of his original excuse.

"What sort of idiot do you take me for? That's no _seminar_ keeping you more than a week straight, out the door by six and shuffling in after nine! And whose car is that, anyway? No Met officer gets chauffeured to work! You can't fool me; I saw a woman in a short skirt when that door opened."

"So you're watching at the window for me to arrive, now?" He'd have to be more careful, and ask Alanna to do the same. Today she'd leaned out a little to take back the documents he'd been studying on the Sunriver Sect and its leader, Leonard Frisk.

"Yeah, I am, actually. No harm in exercising some reasonable caution. If you've decided to have an affair right under my nose, Greg, you're being a real bonehead about it!"

"An affair? Christ, Trace, I'd never—"

"Wouldn't you though?"

"No! No, I would _never,_ an' if you don't know even _that_ much about me, then you had no bloody business seven years ago marrying me!"

He stormed off down the hallway, angrily pulling off his suit jacket as he went, but Tracy wasn't finished with him. She ducked beneath his arm and around the banister, clambering up onto the stairs ahead of him, and blocked his way with her arms crossed.

Greg blew a frustrated breath out over his lower lip and glared up at her. He _hated_ when she used the staircase to gain height on him, as if that was all it took for her to be intimidating. "Tracy, I'm _telling_ you the truth," he growled.

"Well, if you want me to believe you, you'd better tell me _more_ of it. I'm not letting this drop 'til you do."

 _Fuck, now what?_ Greg rubbed a tired hand across his face and desperately groped for something to say; finally he looked back up at her and improvised, "It's...um, it's a pilot programme. They're working on training up a special police liaison team to assist with high-profile security needs, working in concert with the government. I was hand picked, but it's all hush-hush; I shouldn't even be telling you this much!"

His wife blinked, and gaped down at him for a few seconds; finally, she reached out and pulled him into a hug. He sank into it, gratefully nuzzling into the warmth of her chest as she murmured into his hair, "You might have just told me that, in the first place, you dope."

She led him up the stairs and into their bedroom with caresses gentle and sweet enough that it seemed her anger had never been. She didn't even seem to mind that he was so knackered she had to do most of the work.

In the shower afterwards, Greg congratulated himself on coming up with a story that was even marginally plausible. Alanna probably could have given him an explanation that stood a better chance of holding up to scrutiny, especially since there already _was_ a division in the SOD with units that covered very similar duties...but for now, Tracy was convinced.

 _At least this spares me the shouting fit for awhile,_ he thought, wincing at the continued deception. _God, what would she have said tonight if I'd gone ahead and told her the truth?_

"Let's see, what _would_ I have said?" he muttered to himself. The words were quiet under the cool, pounding spray of the spa-style massaging showerhead for which he'd recently become intensely grateful. "Well, Tracy, in five nights' time I'll be driven to a former Catholic school in Lambeth, where I'll sneak into the old tunnels underground with a small team of elite forces; there we'll infiltrate a secretive cult commune led by a psychotic drug-smuggling kingpin, and then—assuming I make it all the way in—I'll be attempting to rescue the kid you so affectionately termed 'that dirty pet junkie of yours', who'll likely be drugged off his head and possibly hurt, to boot. What do you think of _that_?"

"Mm? Did you say something to me, pet?" piped Tracy's voice through the door.

"No," he called to her self-consciously, "just working on a memory exercise. Training stuff. Don't mind me, darling."

 

.

 

The last day of his training came on a Thursday. He'd passed the final shooting tests with not _quite_ top marks, but better than he'd personally expected. Later, the good doctor had given him her own seal of approval, which was reassuring, considering that Greg had spent days on end pushing ever more grimly through a surprisingly wide variety of aches and pains. He'd naturally been concerned that he was too old by far for such intensive activities, but Dr Miller had insisted he remained wholly within acceptable parameters.

The majority of each day in the second week had been spent working along with the small team of operatives hand-picked for Mycroft's undertaking: four men with short codenames and shorter haircuts, all quick and agile crack shots hardly more than half his age. From the little Greg had been able to gather, Jasper, Spade, Grover, and Crow had all begun their careers in various branches of the military, and had worked together at least a few times before. Spade had a rough accent and huge muscles; Jasper, a wiry build and a talent for electronics. Tall, gentle Grover was the guard and wheel man, tasked to get them under the school and keep their exit point clear, while dark-eyed Doc Crow was trained to handle field medic needs, up to and including initial overdose care.

"Now, we're hoping I won't be needed," Crow had said after their first introduction, his soft voice betraying a touch of an Irish edge. "I'll be prepared, you can count on it, but don't think that means you can go gettin' yourself hurt, old man."

In deference to the veil of secrecy which seemed to apply to everyone and everything but Greg, or perhaps to make him feel more a part of the little gang, the four young men had taken to calling him "Sergeant" by way of a code name. Jasper, clearly the most easygoing and sociable one of the group, had shortened that to "Sarge" within two days, and the others had quickly followed suit. Greg took that as a sign that he'd managed to prove his worth, or at least get the others past most of their misgivings about him.

So it was that by Thursday evening, Greg could genuinely say he had a team. He wouldn't exactly call them friends, but he'd grown to genuinely like and respect them, and they'd established a sort of trusting rapport he wished he had with his fellow officers at the Yard.

At last the five of them joined the panel of strategists who had been feeding them plans and data for the past week. They all stood in a darkened briefing room before a wall of monitors, the largest screen showing the layered overhead plan of the aged building and its underground warren. Greg already felt sure he could draw the recommended routes in his sleep.

Together with his four teammates, and again on his own, Greg answered rapid-fire questions. He repeated each direction, each turn and possible trouble point, the backup plans and the various codewords, until the overseers were entirely satisfied that his memory was as sound as those of their seasoned operatives.

Through all of this Mycroft remained silent, seated in the deep shadows at the back of the room—so still it was tempting to forget his presence entirely. But in every pause for breath, each step aside while the others ran through contingencies, Greg sensed the man's attention on him like a weight. Perhaps Holmes truly was as cool and aloof as he always seemed, but Greg could practically _feel_ the message being broadcast within the gaze on the back of his head: _you will find my brother. You will get him out. You will complete your task._

Greg tightened his lips and returned his attention to the briefing with deliberate force, lest he begin to dwell too deeply on what might prevent him from doing so.

Finally Mr Holmes stood, stepping into the light, and gave a curt nod to the others; he approached Greg, scrutinising him for a long moment with unreadable eyes.

"Go home, Detective Sergeant," he said at last, hooking his ever-present umbrella over his forearm and offering his hand to shake. "Rest up tonight and tomorrow, and get plenty of sleep and hydration. On Saturday night, we go ahead as planned."

 

\-----

 


	2. Rescue

  
**Rescue**  
_(5 August 2006)_

.

 

The days of rest had been practically intolerable. Greg had felt antsy and irritable by turns, unable to properly distract himself from his worries and unable to honestly articulate them to Tracy. She had taken off work when she'd found out he wouldn't be going to the "seminar" on Friday, and so he'd been stuck in her company the entire day, out of sheer guilt, which wouldn't have been so unpleasant had it not been for the lies he knew he'd told her. By the time they'd gotten into bed that night, his head had been spinning, his muscles tensed for flight.

"You've got a test tomorrow night, then, to finish all this?" Tracy had yawned, reaching across to massage his neck with her petite hands.

"Uh, yeah. Something like that."

"Why do they need to do it so late, then? Seems fairly odd." Before Greg's racing mind could come up with something, she'd answered her own question. "Oh, or is it like a fire brigade training drill? You know; they burn down some isolated old building in the middle of the night and see how the trainees handle it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Trace, that's exactly the sort of thing," he had agreed, relieved.

"Hm. You shouldn't worry yourself so, love. I'm sure everything will turn out fine."

Twenty-four hours later, his wife's blithe declaration was still bouncing around in his skull. The team had assembled once more at their faceless headquarters, and they'd picked up their equipment and gone together to a locker room to get dressed for the midnight infiltration. Greg, of course, was far slower at kitting up in full gear, and though he knew they meant well, he couldn't quite bring himself to laugh along with their usual raucous jokes; Grover gestured to the others and they quietly filed out to give him space, but he hardly noticed. He was too busy double- and triple-checking each item he donned, as if searching for a superstitious charm to guarantee Sherlock's safe return.

Greg wore a tight white T-shirt, dark military-issue combat trousers with pockets for various goodies, and a baggy short sleeved shirt of heavy white cotton to cover the bulk of his bulletproof vest, the SIG Sauer P226 in its shoulder holster, and a small knife sheath. The white, to be worn by only Doc Crow and himself, was intended to blend in with the cult members' prescribed attire, although even with most of the buttons done up it was clear he wouldn't stand up to more than a casual glance at a distance. He was utterly aware he looked ridiculous.

A throat delicately cleared itself behind him, and he turned from the mirror to find Alanna near the door. "Mr Holmes is a very thorough planner," she told him matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I'd begun to suspect as much, believe it or not."

"I appreciate your sarcasm, as always, but it's entirely true. And I'll tell you this: he's never failed to select the right tool for the job."

Greg grimaced and plucked at the white collar to hide the trailing end of his com-link earpiece. "I feel like a right tool, that's for sure."

"See, now, I was thinking you looked rather dashing."

"You've gotta be kidding me," he returned, but she'd succeeded at getting him to crack a smile matching hers. "Hah—thank you, Alanna. S'pose it's time to get going now, yeh?"

 

.

 

They piled out of the dark, nondescript van in a quiet vacant lot, diagonally adjacent to what had once been the Saint Ignatius School for Boys. The waxing moon cast enough light for them to manoeuvre without aid, but it was enough to make the white shirts fairly glow; even though the heat wave continued to hold sway through the night, Greg and Crow were obliged to sweat under jackets until they got underground.

Grover lowered a winch from the van's tailgate, and he and Spade hooked it onto a thick, featureless square of aged concrete. With the motor purring softly, the slab shifted and slid to reveal a steel ladder, leading to a now-redundant sewer access leg that had gone disused since the seventies. The passage below had nothing to do with the much older network of rooms and hallways that lay beneath the former school nearby; having studied the plans, Greg was convinced that the man who'd founded old Saint Ignatius in 1908 had either been mildly obsessed with cold storage or had held premonitory fears regarding war. Still, there was at least one point of close contact between this tunnel and those, and it was a matter of minutes for Spade and Grover to climb down and make use of the special saws and pry-bars they'd brought.

While he waited quietly with the others, Greg watched the back of the school building for activity. Nearly all of the lights were off, but a few windows remained lit—apparently, some members of the Sunriver Sect liked to stay up late. The majority of the acolytes living here were drawn from the city's homeless youth, a fact which had surely attracted Sherlock's interest to begin with; Mycroft expressed clear disdain for Sherlock's continued association with those on the streets, and Greg wasn't the least bit surprised that Sherlock took his brother's disapproval as a direct challenge. Most of the Sect's street dealers, a canny gang of about fifteen, could be expected to be active across the city at this hour on a Saturday, but perhaps some remained occupied here with other tasks. Then, of course, there were the rougher, more violent types, used within the Sect as guards and enforcers; at least a few of them would certainly pull the night watch.

Finally, Grover emerged from the dark shaft, pulling the heavy bag of tools up with him. "Door's open, boys," he told them, returning to the vehicle to take up his guard. "Have fun down there."

Jasper led Greg and the Doc down into the musty tunnel. His descending silhouette on the ladder was outlined against a foggy cloud of kicked-up dust and grit, slowly settling in the glare of the task lanterns Spade had set below. The big man stood proudly by his handiwork: one lamp threw a thin shaft of light through the opening he and Grover had cut, revealing the dark brick walls of the older passage beyond. There was dim light there already—incandescent bulbs protruded from chunky forties-era fixtures set periodically along one side of the ceiling—but in these less-used outer halls, most of the lighting was burnt out.

"We're going in, Grover," Spade said, and his deep voice echoed in everyone's earpieces. "Pass the time check to Control."

 

.

 

"You know, Sarge, you might've made a good soldier, if you'd a mind to," murmured Jasper as they advanced together in quick, silent steps to the first major intersection point.

"Nope. I most certainly would _not_."

"Whatever you say," he chuckled, slapping Greg once on the shoulder before turning down the corridor to the left. "Watch your back, right?"

"Yeah, well, go do your magic, an' make sure none of _them_ are watching it for me."

"Gotcha covered," he answered, and disappeared. If there were any video or audio surveillance systems running down here, Jasper would have them jammed and looping within about three minutes flat. He'd also be preparing a power cut to be triggered during the raid; that much larger team was waiting well out of sight of the building, ready to swoop in and take control as soon as the rescue team was clear.

Spade remained stoically silent until they reached the next split. "Call if you need me," he rumbled before melting into the darkness to stand guard for their retreat.

After that point, the halls began to show more frequent signs of occupation. Greg and Crow were forced to pause twice, flattening themselves against the dusty walls while cross traffic passed ahead of them: pairs and trios of slender men and women on their night shift, carrying things back and forth while singing or humming faintly strange melodies.

The hundred or so people living here were at least a fair few steps above homeless, Greg supposed. They were all attired similarly, in dark blue or black trousers and plain white tops, some T-shirts, some button-down; it seemed incongruous, all the white in such a rough and dirty place. As they crept deeper into the eccentric warren of tunnels and storage rooms, he found himself speculating on how laundry worked here. Perhaps the young acolytes that kept their clothing stain-free were rewarded with more frequent "tastes" of the product they smuggled and refined?

 _Rewards and punishments rolled into one, complete with chemically assured loyalty. That's a hell of a system,_ Greg mused.

A light nudge at his elbow drew him out of his dark thoughts. "Here," murmured Crow, and then he spoke for the benefit of the team's com-link. "Checkpoint. We're splitting up."

"Clear to proceed. Comm off," Greg promptly confirmed, hearing brief callbacks from his teammates before touching the button on his earpiece. Until he switched it back, the others could still talk to him, but none of them would be able to hear anything he said or did in the meantime.

Considering the usual sort of comments he got from a _sober_ Sherlock, Greg rather thought this was for the best.

Exchanging a nod with the Doc, he turned and took the hall to the right, matching up the closed doors and quiet intersections with the plans he'd memorised. The passageway they'd sent him down ran near the outermost edge of the group's underground territory, the furthest hall more than a hundred metres on from their entry point. Mycroft's intelligence—whether directly provided by his brother, or gleaned from antique city plans—suggested that the rooms meant for isolation and punishment should be off in this direction, far enough away from the daily activities of the cult that any sounds of distress might go unnoticed.

Greg frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the ominous stillness behind him. _Now, let's just hope that intel is right..._

The sight of the broad-shouldered man in the final corridor, leaning against the wall to smoke a cigarette, was a relief. It was also a damned inconvenience, of course, but after two days twiddling his thumbs watching telly rather than sweating through endless sparring drills...

"Oi, you!" he shouted as he ran forward, just to give the big bloke a fighting chance. It wasn't much of one, as it turned out; three hard blows and a sweep of the leg, and Mr Thicko was down for the count.

 _Spade would have called me on getting cocky, there,_ Greg acknowledged as he nudged the guard aside with his boot; _but he didn't hear it, now, did he?_

The door was secured only by means of a thick sliding barrel bolt. Before he touched it, he clamped his lips shut and blew a long, hard breath out, trying to clear a bit of the angry adrenalin that was burning a line from his neck to his fists.

 

.

 

A single bare bulb dangled from the little room's low ceiling. The dark-haired occupant of the cot at the far wall lay twitching and shivering in a torn, dirty T-shirt. As Greg stepped in, he immediately noted the deep hollows of the prisoner's closed eyes and the bruises covering both his arms.

Sherlock looked _rough._ And that was saying something, really; in the past two years, Greg had seen this kid dirty, exhausted, beat half to hell, and coming down hard from various highs. That wasn't even taking into consideration the worst day of all, during the harshest cold snap of the previous December. An officer he used to work with in Traffic had given him a courtesy call about the OD he'd stumbled across, having recognised the kid's face and associated him with Greg through some unfathomable chance; about a week later, Greg had taken PC Vincenne out for a grateful pint.

Standing by the hospital bed that day had been truly awful—watching the young genius breathe on a ventilator while waiting miserably for Mycroft to arrive, wondering whether Sherlock would survive to see his twenty-ninth birthday. Still, even _that_ black memory seemed to pale before the sick fear he felt in this moment.

"Christ, kiddo," he breathed, crossing the room and dropping to his knees beside the cot. "Don't you _tell_ me I'm too bloody late..."

He took up Sherlock's skinny wrist and tried to count the pulse; he was no doctor, but he knew the fluttering beneath his fingertips wasn't quite right. When Greg turned his grip, he saw multiple angry red needle marks on the forearm and in the bend of the elbow. They weren't precise and neat, like the ones Greg had been dismayed to see on Sherlock in the past; had he descended so far into his addiction that he'd simply stopped caring? Or, more likely, had these been administered by someone else, by force? Greg imagined the thick-jawed grunt currently unconscious outside the door having held Sherlock down and jabbed him so ruthlessly—and suddenly, he didn't feel he'd been too rough with him at all. In fact, he resolved to aim another good kick on his way out.

He considered calling Crow to advance, but hesitated for the same reason they'd given him radio silence and a solo entry: the young man's tendency to panic and lash out at unfamiliar faces when high was a known fact. It was Greg's job—his whole purpose for being involved—to get Sherlock up and moving. And he wasn't about to shirk that duty now.

"Sherlock? Hey. Sherlock, can you hear me?"

He earned a thick grunt in response; encouraged, he gripped the man's shoulders and shook them gently until bloodshot eyes reluctantly fluttered open.

"Hey, wake up. _C'mon,_ Sherlock, we don't have much time!"

"I..." The young man's pale, sweaty face screwed up in concentration. "I know you."

"Yeah, you do. Greg Lestrade, your favourite doormat at Scotland Yard. Can you sit up for me? I'm taking you out of here."

"Greg Lestrade," mumbled Sherlock, and a measure of tension eased from his frame. "Oh, that name tastes _funny._ Greg. Greg. Grr-egg. How do you get _by_ with such a funny name? Greg?"

He sighed and bit back the obvious retort, that if one were judging funny names in the present company the winner certainly wouldn't be _his;_ instead he kept on doggedly plucking at Sherlock's arm until he moved enough to be chivvied upright.

"I didn't know you were here," Sherlock muttered, frowning. "Benny's here. Norah Rae was, too, but she—You shouldn't _be_ here, Greg."

"What? Oh, the shirt? No, no, I'm not involved. I just came for you."

The words didn't seem to register with him. He rocked from side to side, worrying at his chapped lower lip with his teeth. "I came for Benny. But he wouldn't go."

"Wouldn't he?"

"No. _You_ aren't like Benny, are you Greg? Don't let him trick you. It's all lies!"

"I know. It's okay, Sherlock. You and me, we're both leaving now. Go on, get up."

Obediently, Sherlock began to turn and lower his bare feet to the floor; then his eyes widened suddenly, and he froze in place. "But—the needle—"

Greg felt his face twist. "There'll be no more of that. You're coming off the shite."

"No, Greg. Greg. The Needle."

This time he heard the capital and understood. _Frisk, that crazy bugger running the cult, he fancies himself the "Needle of God." Sick fuck._ "Out of the country. One weekend a month to Afghanistan, yeh? The 'missionary' trips. Exactly like you said."

"I said?"

"Yes. Yes, Sherlock, _you_ gave us the intel. Before you were put down here. And now we're getting you out, all right? Try and stand, now. I've got you."

He wasn't about to try explaining the secondary mission that Mycroft was running at that very moment—the minute Leonard Frisk and his bodyguards stepped off their plane, they would be snapped up by very cooperative local authorities. It was good to know, but Sherlock was clearly too far gone to relate.

Just as he took the brunt of Sherlock's uncoordinated weight onto his shoulder, his com-link crackled to life. "You've got company coming from back my way, Sarge," Crow hissed. "Intercept or stay?"

"Stay," he answered immediately, thumbing the button at his ear. "Might need your services. We're mobile now, we'll take B route around to you."

"Copy that."

Greg manoeuvred them hurriedly out through the narrow door; he didn't spare a moment's thought for the man he'd left lying on the floor, though he just _might_ have tripped a bit over the fellow's head. Unfortunately, the corridor was a long one with fair visibility, although he doubted that the guard's incapacity had yet drawn any attention. Whatever other purpose the approaching Sunriver members had in coming this way, Greg knew that the sight of one man obviously helping their prisoner and another sprawled below wouldn't take much to understand.

Sure enough, one shout of alarm became two or three raised voices—and then sudden gunfire rang out, the rapid smack of something semi-automatic. Cursing, Greg pulled Sherlock ahead of him and threw them both bodily around the corner into the darker side passage. A ricochet pinged past, followed by the soft chitter of chipped brick hitting the floor.

He felt Sherlock lurch unsteadily, tipping between the wall and his shoulder, and a new thrill of fear overlaid his already straining concentration. "Are you hit?" he whispered urgently. "Sherlock, are you hurt?"

"...I don't think so," his charge slurred, panting.

Now Greg could hear the shouting coming closer to the entrance of the narrow hall. The relative darkness here would help, but not for long. Unless he had bad intel, there was another intersection soon that would provide some meagre cover; he pushed along the wall with his right hand as he urged Sherlock ahead, and when the corner dropped away under his fingers he dragged them aside without hesitation.

"Hold still, now," he muttered, propping Sherlock against the wall beside him. Ignoring the incoherent burble of protest, he threw his left arm across Sherlock's body to pin him upright. The moment he felt the younger man's weight settle back into the wall, he pulled the SIG from its holster and widened his stance to face the square of light marking the head of the passage. He could feel Sherlock's bony chest heaving against his arm in shock as he fired two quick warning shots.

"Steady," Greg breathed, waiting tense seconds for the sounds of pursuit. The men continued to yell angrily at each other about the unexpected intrusion, but they seemed confused and disjointed: at least one voice sounded like it was receding, but the closest clearly wasn't advancing.

 _If I've spooked him, that's good._ He pulled back to holster the gun and touched his comm button again, saying, "Shots fired, but I bought us a little time."

Jasper's voice replied. "Yeah, you got 'em riled up; they're raising the alarm upstairs. Control's having me cut power early to send in Team Two, you clear?"

"Clear enough. Ta for the warning." He moved his hand from Sherlock's shoulder long enough to pull his shirt completely open and grope for the hands-free torch clipped to his vest. In the seconds it took him to get it activated, they were plunged from shadowy dark into complete blackness, and sharp shouts of distress echoed in the distance.

"Who are you talking to?" asked Sherlock, sounding uncharacteristically querulous. Greg was reminded of his nephew, barely six the last time Tracy had dragged him to Cambridge for a visit.

"My team," he answered curtly. He adjusted the lamp's angle, then set them into motion again. "This way, come on."

"You're not," Sherlock protested disjointedly, shaking his head hard beside Greg's cheek. "Are not—never were? The _gun_."

"I dunno what you're asking me, but _keep moving_ ,"—he caught the man as he began to pitch forward, and hitched him closer to keep them shuffling on—"Christ. No, I'm not a soldier. Is that what you meant? Never have been. These are your brother's men, they're just helping us get out, okay? We're almost there. God, kiddo, would you move your feet!"

Sherlock subsided into indistinct muttering, then, but put more focus into the coordination of his limbs. Soon they staggered out into the hallway where Crow awaited them, his own torch bright; Sherlock squinted, growling, and shied away from the white-shirted stranger who stepped close to quickly check his vitals.

"It's all right," Greg soothed him automatically, "this is Crow. He's a friend, you're safe. Doc, I don't know if we've drawn pursuit..."

"Sounds like Two's keeping them occupied, but let's not wait around to see, eh? Spade, get ready to cover us through." By the time Crow had finished speaking, he'd positioned himself at their rear with weapon drawn and the three of them were moving again, picking up speed as they retraced the original entry path by the bouncing light of their torches.

Sherlock stumbled along with one hand fisted tightly in Greg's loose shirt. All the way back out of the tunnels, his hoarse whispering was a continuous sibilance in the ear opposite Greg's comm. The remaining members of the team joined them, quietly exchanging their customary banter and checking in with Grover and the Control van, but Greg was only fractionally aware of it all. The world seemed to have narrowed itself to his arm clasped around Sherlock's still-shivering torso, and the sound of his own first name repeated like a strange mantra against the humid shadows.

 

.

 

The Sunriver raid had played out as smoothly and efficiently as could be expected, with only a few lives lost—all reportedly from the ranks of the cult's rough enforcers and street dealers. There were at least seven ambulances idling in the vacant lot, now, most of which were apparently in use as diagnosis centres for the outflow of disoriented, brainwashed acolytes. They were being sorted and processed according to need, Greg supposed, routed from there to hospital, or rehab, or temporary shelter and counselling, or holding cells...to be honest, Greg couldn't care less what was going on at this point. The agents and operatives bustling around him all had their own jobs to do, but _his_ work was done; left to wander aimlessly through the crowd of strangers, he felt invisible and safely numb.

He begged a damp towel from one of the small army of paramedics, and found a quiet spot to stand beside one of the vehicles, carefully cleaning sweaty grime and grit from his face. He'd caught a glimpse of his reflection in the chrome of an ambulance bay door—whatever trick the Sunriver Sect had used to keep their shirts clean in that sub-basement certainly hadn't worked out for _him._

"Detective Sergeant Lestrade." Mycroft's voice sounded from behind him, unseen.

Greg twitched and stood up a little taller, but the task at hand was blissfully necessary, and besides, he was too tired just then for polite pleasantries; he merely grunted, continuing to stroke the damp cloth methodically over his eyes and face.

Mycroft continued, undeterred by the non-verbal response. "The remote mission in Afghanistan is successfully complete. I thought you might like to know."

"Good, congratulations," he muttered tersely into his hands.

"The service you have done my family shall not be forgotten, and shall not go unrewarded. However, in light of the present...difficulties...it would be completely understood if you were to have misgivings about your future dealings with my brother. Should you wish it, I'm certain I could redirect his attention to someone else at the Yard in future."

"I'm sorry, _what_ are you saying?" Realising too late how sharp his muffled words sounded, he added an afterthought: "Sir."

There was a pause. "Your past already involves one prolonged, traumatic experience with the inevitable decline of an addict. I should hate for you to shackle yourself into an association with another, purely through a sense of obligation."

Greg let the towel drop to his side. Turning, he squared himself with the other man and met his shockingly cool eyes. "It's not an obligation. And I don't know about you, but I sure as hell don't see it as _inevitable._ Not for him." On any other occasion, the shock of hearing Mr Holmes make presumptions about his Johanna would likely have raised real anger, but right now he was so exhausted that the invasion of his privacy barely turned his stomach. It was one more tick going on the list of Reasons to Dislike Mycroft Holmes, though, that was for sure.

The silence as Mycroft studied him was thick and calculating. At last, he blinked once and gave a short nod, saying only, "Noted."

Greg watched him turn and walk silently away, as stiff-backed and serene as if he hadn't regained his baby brother from the brink of mortal danger less than an hour before. He marvelled at such incredible detachment.

Whatever further thoughts he had on the matter were put out of his head in the next moment, as Jasper's familiar rambling voice approached.

"There he is, guys! Hey, Sarge, we've gotta get your gear back. And Crow's been telling us about the spot of bother you ran into, but he didn't _hear_ any more than we did, with you hush-hush. So we gotta know, how did it go down?"

 

.

 

By the time Greg extricated himself at last from the round of back-slapping congratulations and goodbyes, he expected that someone would be looking to bundle him off home at any moment. It didn't happen, though, so he gave in to his next whim and searched for Sherlock.

He eventually found the young man huddling tiredly in a shock blanket, long legs dangling off the edge of an open ambulance bay. A rattled-looking paramedic hovered behind him in the vehicle, clearly doing his best to remain vigilant in monitoring the patient while keeping a safe distance. Greg could only imagine the sharp words he'd received.

Something in Sherlock's expression made it clear that the near-hallucinogenic distress of the high inflicted upon him had passed. Even without meeting his pale eyes, Greg perceived the intellect pulling itself back online, slowly rallying its logical defences in weary preparation for the painful withdrawal to come.

Hopping up to sit beside the younger man, Greg sighed at the throbbing in his feet. "You are gonna give me grey hair, kid, I've no doubt."

" _Pfft_ , your going grey is inevitable. The genetic markers are clearly stacked against you; don't blame it on me."

"Fine," he returned affably, stretching his back, and they both subsided into drained silence.

As long as he was in no immediate danger, and the trailing ends of the operation were still in motion, there was no rush to cart Sherlock away. All parties concerned knew without doubt that his next stop would be a long stay in rehab, and for once, even Sherlock seemed to accept the fate in store for him. As Greg watched, a short shudder coursed through his thin frame, like an aftershock; Greg found himself remembering the time Sherlock had tried to explain his mental organisation system, one late night over biscuits and cooling tea.

"I don't mind if you delete it," he said abruptly, and Sherlock's red-rimmed eyes flicked over to him.

"That's an unlikely sentiment, from the lips of someone who's just completed a heroic deed at great personal risk. I'd expect you to demand my gratitude."

"No, go ahead. If it helps, do it. Delete everything about it including my damn _first name_ if you want to, just—" He shrugged. "I don't need gratitude. What I need is for you to put all this well behind you, and get clean. Think you can do that?"

"And if I do, will you be waiting for me to come back to London and assist you with your cases, Detective Inspector?"

"What—" Greg dipped his chin and peered at Sherlock worriedly. "Thought you were coming down off that rot. Did you hit your head or something? You know I'm only a DS."

"Oh, I wouldn't count on that for very much longer," he hummed, pointedly indicating something behind Greg with a twitch of his eyebrows.

When Greg looked, he caught only a glimpse of Mycroft Holmes walking off behind one of the remaining vehicles. He gaped after him for a moment, as the implications settled in. When he turned back, still speechless, Sherlock had twisted his own head around to stare at the hulking old building in and under which he'd survived for a quarter of a year.

"You know...I might actually take that advice, after all, _Grr-egg_ ," said Sherlock, and there was an air of finality in the way he rolled the name over his cracked lips.

Greg found he didn't mind that one bit.

 

\-- _fin_ \--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to my lovely, patient betas, Harmony_Lover and solrosan!


End file.
